Lexa sat cross-legged on the bed, her armor set neatly aside, the Commander's tattoos—those black, sweeping marks of every clan—tracing down her spine like a language Daisy didn’t yet know how to read. The candlelight shimmered over her skin, turning the room into something almost holy. She didn’t turn as Daisy entered, only spoke quietly, voice low and even. “Each mark is for a clan I swore to unite under the Commander’s flame. Each scar is for the war it took to make that promise mean something.”Her tone wasn’t boastful. It was tired. Steady, but tired.Lexa looked over her shoulder then, green eyes catching Daisy’s reflection in the bronze mirror. The faintest curve touched her mouth—a smile, but one weighed down with memory.“You look like you have questions, Sky Girl.” The nickname had softened over time, losing its edge. Now it almost sounded like affection.Lexa turned fully now, facing her, still seated on the edge of the bed. She tilted her head, studying Daisy the way one studies a flame that refuses to go out. “To remember is to honor. My people carry the stories of the fallen on their skin. We do not hide from pain, Daisy Griffin. We learn to carry it.” Her hand lifted slightly, fingers brushing one of the inked lines along her back. The movement was quiet, reverent. “This one—” she touched just below her shoulder blade, “—was the day I took the Flame. The day the spirits chose me. I was barely older than you.” There was a long silence then, the kind that hummed with something unspoken. Outside, thunder rolled faintly across the hills. Lexa’s voice dropped, softer still. “It is not easy to lead. It never was. But perhaps you understand that already.” “Careful, Sky Girl,” she said, voice a low murmur, more gentle warning than tease. “Flattery can sound like worship.”